


Free of Charge

by meaninglessblah



Series: Gift Fics [19]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Cock Warming, Condoms, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, Fighting Kink, Identity Porn, Lapdance, M/M, Reconnaissance, Rough Sex, Sex Work, Slade Wilson is Deathstroke, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:48:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28065750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah
Summary: “That’ll cost you a pretty penny. Not sure you could afford me,” Slade growls out with a coy wink. The expression on his mark’s face is astonishment, tinged with some sort of inside joke Slade’s evidently not privy to. He pauses in his slow gyration over the man’s lap to study his expression, wary. “What?”“I just- You don’t know who I am, do you?” Bruce asks with a curl of bitten down laughter.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Slade Wilson
Series: Gift Fics [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1960108
Comments: 13
Kudos: 112
Collections: Batfam Kinkmas Exchange 2020





	Free of Charge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Romiress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romiress/gifts).



Slade was in a platoon once. He’s seen enough bachelors parties to know the ropes by now. 

Still, he doesn’t think any of the parties he attended in his military days, hosted in alcohol-stained private rooms in the back of downtown strip clubs, hold a candle to whatever this grand festivity is. 

The decor alone would have cost an entire year’s worth of Slade’s contracts. Not that you can see it with how incredibly dim the lighting is. The place is decked out in obnoxious neons and a small army’s worth of caterers that bustle back and forth as the guests spill in. He’s pretty sure he even saw two guys haul an ice sculpture out of a van at the back entrance when he’d shrugged inside unseen. Had looked like some sort of archer to him, though he can’t discern the significance. 

He doesn’t know all that much about Oliver Queen, but the man’s recent engagement and upcoming nuptials had been plastered across every newspaper for the last week and half when the open contract had landed on Slade’s desk. 

He’d looked into the contract’s owner first and foremost; Slade liked to know who he was working for, and who was likely to renegotiate terms after the fact. It wasn’t anyone of merit, as far as he could see - an old competitor in a dying industry, desperate to regain some market share. It didn’t take looking into the company’s financials to work out why they were circling the drain, but it did confirm they were liquid enough to pay out Slade’s contract before they’d inevitably go under. 

Queen was more of an enigma. The man had at least decent cybersecurity, a front that Slade couldn’t bluntforce without raising several alarms. Maybe an avenue to pursue later, but he hadn’t accepted the contract yet. He was just in the neighbourhood to learn as much about the man as possible before he floated his counteroffer for the fatal deed. 

The bachelor’s party had been a neat cover, and an easy in to study the mark in close quarters. Lots of warm bodies rushing about, minimal oversight. A lot of drunk patrons unlikely to prove to be reliable witnesses if Slade, for whatever reason, has to extract himself under pressure. 

It’s only reconnaissance though, so Slade’s not expecting any trouble. He’s just background noise, one of the staff, one of the entertainment, flitting about in the shadows unmarked and unremembered. So Slade chooses a role that will grant him close quarters access, and wrings together a passable outfit for the night. 

Apparently Queen has a taste for men, and built ones at that. Slade’s not one to judge; preferences never concerned him like they seemed to do most military folk. And judging by Queen’s blushing bride, he’s not the most dominant player in the bedroom. 

It’s probably why the bouncer at the back entrance hadn’t looked twice when Slade had lined up with all the other scantily clad men to enter the main room. He’d gotten _a_ look, of course, a slow drag of appreciative eyes down the ridges of muscle and complimentary straps of leather as he’d stood beneath the green neons. 

But apparently the man was a professional, because he’d merely grunted and marked off a name on his plastic clipboard - a burner identity, a retired one Slade had repurposed for this event - before nodding him through the curtain of plastic glass. 

The floor is busy by the time Slade gets down the flight of stairs, trying not to grip the banister too tightly in his descent. Enhanced reflexes and muscle control certainly go a long way towards making the strut more graceful than Slade feels, stepping precariously in his platform heels. 

It’s been fucking years since Slade’s worn heels. If the faint ache starting up in his calves is anything to go off, his body is just as disapproving now as it was then. It’ll be a miracle if he can navigate the darkened floor without tripping and breaking his neck. 

Surprisingly enough, most of his contracts don’t call for undercover work. Slade only tends to pull out a disguise when he’s scoping out potential contracts, like he is now. The one on Queen is sizeable, but not the best offer currently on Slade’s table. It’s an easy enough job though, if his sources are to be believed. Queen’s a man of many vices, least of all drinking, with a penchant for entitlement and an arrogance that lends itself to insecurity. Specifically, the lack of warm-blooded security that Slade usually has to bypass to take a decent shot at a man like Queen. 

It almost feels like a bluff, the confidence with which the man travels without a personal detail. It’s why Slade had felt it necessary to investigate the target himself, before taking up the contract. The bachelors party is a convenient cover for a simple reconnaissance mission; nothing more, nothing less. 

Slade heads for the low lounge seating around the center platform. There are dancers here - women, in all manner of gaudy outfits, though the floor service is definitely tilting towards a male preference - lining the stages, grinding down bright silver poles to the thrum of some deep music Slade feels more than hears. 

Queen’s centre stage at the end of the long, low platform, bathed in the flickering lights with a drink in hand. There’s a woman curled in his spread lap, but he’s whispering in the ear of some muscled twink, a sly curl to that goatee that has Slade rolling his eyes. 

Any one of the lounges lining the room makes for a good vantage point to study the man, but Slade intends to get close if he wants to gather reliable data. So he picks a lone suit a few seats down from the bachelor, one who’s sipping champagne and watching the heels of the dancer on the stage in front of him with quiet rapture. The glitters sparkles off his cufflinks when he tilts his flute to his lips, and Slade spares an idle thought for how easy it would be to pickpocket a table full of billionaires like Oliver Queen. 

Stows it, in favour of stalking across the floor to the man and planting himself in front of him. He spares a cursory glance for the expression of surprise that filters over the younger man’s features, forcing himself to hold those deep blue eyes with what counts as a smile. 

“Mind if I join you?” he asks, pitching the sound low just to compete with the music. Just to watch the man flush and squirm the barest amount, glancing aside at Queen, as if to ask permission. 

Slade folds a knee onto the black leather, if only to relieve the ache in his calf, and strokes a palm down the crisp white shirt beneath him. Rearranges his expression to look just the barest bit disappointed so he can pout, “Unless I’m not your type?” 

He has no doubt he’s exactly what the mark is after. If the heat crawling up from the crooked line of his shirt collar is anything to go off, Slade’s doing something right. 

He rolls his hips, angling his ass to brush just the lightest amount over the man’s crotch as he claims his position, kneeling high. That startled blue gaze flashes down to Slade’s crotch, his thighs, and back up the line of his chest to meet his eyes again. 

Slade smirks, crooking painted lips. “I think I might be though, right, darling?” 

“Yes,” the man murmurs, seeming to regain his faculties. He swallows hard, gaze jumping again when Slade lays a broad palm across his bared collarbone. “You- you do this for work?” 

Slade gives him a slow, languid blink, and a smooth smile. “Everyone’s gotta eat, honey. And you’re a whole snack.” 

That gaze trails over him again, as if in disbelief, and Slade chirps a laugh. If he can get the suit to relax, he should be able to study Queen without the prowess of his lap dance being called into question. He’s pretty sure he understands the logistics, though he hasn’t really had a chance to perfect the technicalities. So long as he keeps this mark plied with alcohol, Slade should be able to tend to tonight’s actual purpose. 

“You don’t look too bad yourself,” the man admits, the first concession of the night. Slade breathes a small sigh of relief, threading long fingers into the man’s dark hair. 

The look he’s gone with is altogether… industrial. The soft lace of his bralette is about the only ‘gentle’ touch he’s added, though the delicate straps are barely holding their own against his buxom chest. The network of thick leather that compromises his full-body harness speaks to a much harsher tone. The rings clatter softly when he lowers himself into his mark’s lap, thick thighs swamping the man. 

From the shudder of a breath he drags from the man’s chest when he grinds up the suit’s own thighs, they’re certainly appreciated. He’s not sure how long the straining material of the stockings Slade had wrestled into is going to last, but it definitely enhances the image of caged power he’s fronting. 

The man’s warm palms fall to them almost naturally, stroking over the small metal eyelets Slade’s garter attaches to with the flat of his thumbs as Slade works. The rings lining his body catch the fleeting light with every twist and roll, drawing his patron’s gaze across the straining muscle and lashed torso with awe. 

Slade makes sure to lean down, hot lips close enough to tickle the man’s ear when he offers in a low timbre, “You can touch, if you’d like.” 

The man makes an odd wheezing noise that Slade chalks up to embarrassment, so Slade trails his fingers down the man’s wrists to guide his palms up to rest on Slade’s waist. 

He’s never met a suit so stiff. If he has to spend his entire evening convincing this guy to feel up the merchandise, Slade’s going to have to find a new mark. Biting his tongue, he grips the back of the guy’s neck and rolls up onto his knees, grinding his crotch against the man’s immaculately buttoned shirt. 

“You got a name, handsome?” 

The responding, “Bruce,” is almost drowned beneath the thundering music, so Slade tosses a glance over his shoulder to confirm Queen hasn’t wandered off, and crooks his ear down next to the man’s mouth. 

“Say that again for me, sweetheart, nice and slow.” 

“My name is Bruce,” the suit wheezes, blue eyes wide. He honestly looks like this is his first time with a stripper. Slade almost pities the guy; he’s got to have a clean million to end up on this guestlist, and the man doesn’t even know how to enjoy the finer things in life. 

He almost feels sorry that his pathetic excuse for a lapdance is going to be Bruce’s first experience. 

“What are you here for?” Bruce asks, when Slade slides a sensual palm down his thigh to snap the strap there. The sound makes Bruce jolt between his legs, and Slade takes the opportunity to scan the floor. 

Queen’s got to be on his second drink in the time that Slade’s been here alone. He likes to know his targets’ vices, and it seems tonight his sources weren’t kidding when they said the man has a loose tongue for spirits. 

“It’s a bachelor party, isn’t it?” Slade calls back down. The music is starting to throb in his skull, no doubt spurning his enhanced senses. He busies himself with spreading his legs wider and gyrating down those dark suit pants. 

The woman in Queen’s lap is laughing at something he’s said, though the hunky twink has disappeared. To where, Slade neither knows nor cares, because he’s watching the progress of Queen’s ringed fingers down her fishnetted thigh. 

Handsy, maybe. Easy to get close to a target when they have no concept of personal space. 

“Sure,” Bruce agrees, but doesn’t sound like he believes it. Slade arches a crisp white brow and bats his lashes, coaxing that flush back up into the man’s cheeks. _He’s_ the one on the guest list; surely he should know whose bachelor party this is. 

“If it’s a party, I’m here,” Slade tosses out, distracted. He should really scope out the back in the guise of fixing his makeup. Getting a good gauge on the man’s perimeter team is imperative to a successful mission. These old money types don’t just wander around without _some_ protection, even if Queen seems to take personal security at face value. 

“I didn’t think this was your sort of party.” 

Bruce must be a fucking virgin, for how well he holds a conversation. So much for money pulling in all the ladies. 

Slade rests his palms on either side of the man’s throat, venting the urge to squeeze down and be done with this charade. He’s here for recon, nothing more, he reminds himself, and diverts up into the man’s hairline with a tight smile. 

“Bruce, wasn’t it?” he simpers, and Bruce nods warily. “Surely a stud like you knows how to make the most of a situation like this, hmm? Making me do all the work here. You’re tiring me out, baby, and not in the good way.” 

The man’s face bleaches white, a horrific shade of mortified, and it takes most of Slade’s composure not to roll his eyes. There is something familiar about his features though, something to that strong jawline that sits on the back of Slade’s tongue like a word forgotten. Rats. 

“Let me take the lead, cupcake,” Slade growls, nice and low to hopefully stir something in the inebriate’s groin. He’s got to be drunk, with how much he’s brickwalling Slade. He’s been grinding in this guy’s lap for near on fifteen minutes now; he should be getting results. 

Coaxing the man’s broad palms up to settle on Slade’s chest _does_ get a reaction, finally. He nearly sings praises when those manicured nails curl into the lace of his bralette, squeezing just this side of gentle into his firm chest. 

Slade laughs a reassurance and rewards him with a cute little wiggle. 

Those thumbs cant, finding Slade’s nipples with unerring precision, and Bruce’s eyes flicker up to him, as if checking for permission. Slade gives him a thin smile and braces his palms back on the man’s knees so he can give him his best imitation of riding a cock. Head thrown back over his shoulders to watch Queen upside down. 

He hasn’t seen an opening yet, but he supposes tonight counts as an exceptional circumstance. Still, despite the dancer shaking her ass against his crotch and the hunk - a new one, this time - pouring a goblet into Queen’s open mouth, the man is surprisingly… caged. Slade knows what training looks like, and he knows what a feint looks like. Queen is on his guard. Even heavily intoxicated and swamped with well-wishers, Slade hasn’t seen a single lapse in the man’s casual shield. 

It’s not easy to pass off intense training, and everything about Queen tells Slade he’s more than trained. Maybe it’s just an obsessive fascination with recreational martial arts, but Slade’s hesitant to chalk it up to something so dismissive. And he certainly won’t take a contract on someone he isn’t certain he can catch off his guard. 

It takes a man like Slade to recognise another man with quiet interests. He’s a little smug to have caught Queen out, even with the limited information he has. It’s proof he’s still on his game, still able to sum up a man on sight alone. 

Slade’s sure if he were grinding in _Queen’s_ lap, he’d be able to get the guy’s social security number out of him. 

“I didn’t catch your name,” Bruce says over the music, his hands graduating to palming the rises of Slade’s hipbones. He rewards the man with a blazing grin, straightening back up to grind into his crotch again. 

“You can call me whatever you like, sweetcheeks. I’m yours for this whole dance.” 

Bruce rolls something around on his tongue, thumbs tracing the furrows where Slade’s hips and thighs meet, skirting under the straps there. It stokes some latent amusement in Slade’s gut when the suit finally comes up with, “And if I wanted you for more than just this dance?” 

Oh, he’s familiar with this game. Patrons wanting to get a more comprehensive view of the merchandise. Slade cocks his head and rolls his tongue over his teeth to stall. 

“That’ll cost you a pretty penny. Not sure you could afford me,” Slade growls out with a coy wink. The expression on his mark’s face is astonishment, tinged with some sort of inside joke Slade’s evidently not privy to. He pauses in his slow gyration over the man’s lap to study his expression, wary. “What?” 

“I just- You don’t know who I am, do you?” Bruce asks with a curl of bitten down laughter. 

Slade arches his brow again. “Should I?” 

Those thumbs press hard into Slade’s thighs, massaging dully into the flesh as the music thunders around them and the swinging lights douse them in rippling, inconsistent shadows. 

“Well,” the man says, almost sheepish, “I’m Bruce Wayne. I paid for this party.” 

Slade starts. That’s a pretty huge fucking oversight on his part. Though, thinking on it, it’s hardly a surprise that Star City’s billionaire rubs elbows with Gotham’s favourite playboy. 

“I’m in the wedding party,” Bruce continues, flashing perfect white teeth. They glow eerily beneath the neons. “Lost out on best man, but the view from here isn’t all that bad.” 

“I’ll bet,” Slade breathes, and sits back on his calves to study the man. He doesn’t strike Slade as the handsy playboy he’s seen in the papers. But maybe that’s just a coy front for the paparazzi. It wouldn’t be the first repressed billionaire Slade’s been in close quarters with. “I suppose that means you and Queen are quite close then.” 

Bruce laughs, and nods. “You could say that.” 

Slade chews his lip and shifts position again. An opportunity, perhaps, for better intel than what he can glean from watching the blond bachelor from afar. Pretty boys do like to talk a lot with their pants around their ankles. And gossip circles run thick in these sorts of crowds. “How do you know each other?” 

“Through work,” Bruce answers. Simple enough. He clearly knows Queen well enough, if he’s in the wedding party. Maybe Slade can even get some intel on the man’s soon to be bride too, rule her out as a threat. Not that he’s expecting anything groundbreaking. 

Still, intel is intel, and it greases the wheels of a mission better than prayer or luck. 

“Suppose that means you can afford just about anyone in this room then,” Slade purrs, thumbing across the man’s hairline as he slings an arm across his shoulders. “Don’t suppose you have a pile of money you want to fuck me in?” 

Bruce laughs, just the barest bit choked, but it smooths quickly. “No pile of cash, no. But I hear the sheets in the back rooms are Egyptian cotton.” 

It’s been a pretty minute since Slade has been bedded on sheets with a thread count higher than his IQ. Even if the frigid playboy makes for a poor fuck, Slade will bear it for the sake of extracting crucial information from him. 

He answers by pushing off his knees and back onto his feet, setting the precarious heels back on the tile before he offers a hand to the still-sitting man. Bruce takes it with a smile that’s just the barest bit giddy, winding an arm around Slade’s waist to guide him past Queen’s drunk entourage and towards a hallway that leads off the main room. 

In heels like these, Slade towers over the playboy, so he’s still a little surprised when Bruce plays the gentleman and holds the door open for him. 

The decor is tastefully gaudy, the drapes gold and the covers on the California king a silky black. The room is blessedly carpeted, deadening the clack of Slade’s heels when Bruce closes the door softly behind them, and more importantly, relieving Slade’s knees of the unnecessary strain of hardwood when he slides down to tug open Wayne’s belt. 

The breath rushes out of Bruce’s lungs when Slade presses him back against the door, opening his fly and tugging his slacks down to his thighs to access the cock swelling against his briefs. 

Then he smiles up at Wayne, bats his pretty glue-on lashes, and asks him, “So how do you know Queen?” 

“Ollie?” Bruce says, surprised, and sucks in sharply when Slade mouths down the front of his underwear. _This_ part is more muscle memory, coming to him far more readily than lapdance techniques. Slade splays his palms over Bruce’s hipbones and pins him back against the door with just enough force to keep the man interested. 

“You said you worked together,” Slade coaxes, and thumbs down the elastic waistband to kiss the base of the man’s cock where it peeks out. 

“I said we met through work,” Bruce corrects, like the distinction is important. His hand threads into Slade’s hair, almost hesitantly, and he curbs the urge to snort. He’s got his lips on the man’s dick and he’s worried about whether or not he’s allowed to touch Slade’s _hair._

Clearly Slade’s going to need to take the lead here, and he does so by peeling down the playboy’s briefs, humming when his half-hard cock springs free. 

“So what’s he like?” Slade asks, and bends forward to run his lips down one side of Bruce Wayne’s cock. 

Bruce exhales through his teeth, head tilting back against the door. He’s stirring fast, his arousal evident as Slade peppers delicate kisses down his shaft before graduating to something with a bit more tongue. “I’ve known Ollie most of his life,” he says, tone the barest bit strained. “Never thought he’d ever settle down, to be honest.” 

“He seems to know how to party,” Slade agrees, and lifts a hand from Bruce’s hip to spit into his palm. Bruce twitches at the slick sound, humming when Slade uses the makeshift lube to ease his grip. A few steady, attentive pumps has the man’s cock rising in interest, so Slade turns his tongue to the sensitive head. 

“He’s always been pretty wild,” Bruce agrees. “Going slow was never Ollie’s style. He’s more the ‘rockstar’ type.” 

Slade turns a smile up at the man, revelling in the hitch of Bruce’s breath when he does. “Drugs, booze and women, right? Bet that got him into plenty of trouble.” 

Bruce nods dumbly, so Slade bends to take the length into his mouth in one slick motion. It punches a moan from the man’s chest. “More than you know.” 

After a few steady bobs of his head, complimented by the slide of his fist, Slade comes up for air and to ask, “A guy like that would pick up plenty of scorned exes, right? Any of them ever come for Queen?” 

“They’ve tried,” Bruce admits, so Slade goes back to fucking his mouth on the man’s cock. “Ollie’s got better security than most people realise. He might look like an easy target, but he takes his safety very seriously.” 

Slade hums contemplatively, hollowing his cheeks as he takes Wayne deeper, until his cockhead is nudging the back of his throat with every rise and fall. 

“Plus,” Bruce continues, babbling now, “most people don’t realise that Ollie’s an outdoorsman. Packs a real punch, even when he’s wasted. I’ve dragged him out of enough bar fights to know.” 

Useful information. So Slade’s suspicions about the man are at least somewhat confirmed. The tidbit on his security sounds like it’s worth looking into as well. 

He’s not especially miffed at the intel. Even unfortunate intel can help shape a successful mission. And if it proves too troublesome, Slade can always pass this contract up. Let some other hired killer take the shot at Queen. 

It does sort of ruin his hopes for the night, though. All this effort put into all his outfit and makeup, for this recon to be a waste. 

Bruce’s hand tightens in his hair when Slade swallows him down his throat, slackening his jaw to take him as deep as he dares. His voice is a little breathless, affected, when he says, “You really- you really commit to the act, don’t you?” 

Slade relaxes his gag reflex and opens his eyes to hold Bruce’s gaze as he slides down the shaft, until his lips are pressed to the root. When he pulls off, swallowing back saliva, his voice is a little strained. “I aim to please, baby.” 

“You certainly do,” Bruce agrees, and tilts Slade’s head back by the grip in his hair. Holds his tongue out obediently for Bruce to trace his cock over, and flinches good-naturedly when the man hits him in the face with it. Playboy types really do all play the same. “Did you want to take this to the bed?” 

Slade withdraws his tongue to grin, rocking back onto his heels with only the barest wobble, and pushes to his feet to approach the bed. Lets his own hands skirt down the length of his body, painted nails catching in the straps of his harness. “Clothes on or off?” 

Bruce hums, admiring him when he sits on the edge and crosses his legs. “I think we can lose the heels.” 

Thank fuck. Slade leans back on his elbows when Bruce crouches to his knees to handle the buckle, making quick work of the items. Slade stares up at the decorated ceiling and asks. “Sounds like you want to keep the rest on.” 

“Something tells me you’d prefer it if I took it off you myself.” 

When he rises back into view, Slade gives him a considering smirk. “What gave you that impression?” 

“Big guy like you,” Bruce murmurs, and nudges his knees open wider so he can step between them. The guy certainly has a presence to him now, something powerful to the way he crowds Slade. There’s a familiarity to it that has Slade’s blood heating, something that feels like a fight. “Don’t think you like to take it easy, do you?” 

That’s a game he can play. Wrapping a hand in Wayne’s shirt is child’s play, though he does meet some resistance when he pivots to slam the man into the mattress. He bounces, half turning and bracing to counteract Slade’s hold, so he releases him. 

The barest hint of disconcertion dances of Bruce’s brow as Slade curls his toes into the plush carpet and surveys him. “Are you suggesting I like it rough, Wayne?” 

Bruce sits up slowly, the disparity putting his eyes at level with Slade’s chest. His hands rise to trail over Slade’s stockings, tentative and questioning. None of that power he saw just before. “Am I wrong?” he asks, curling fingers into his thigh harnesses. 

Slade hums, lets himself be rocked forward by the pressure there. “You’re not wrong.” 

Sue him if he wants to have a little fun with his evening. Maybe he’s owed a little something to ensure this night isn’t totally written off the books. If that means a bit of fun playing with Bruce Wayne, playboy billionaire, then Slade’s calling in a debt. 

Bruce bends forward, holding his gaze, testing, pushing, and presses a deceptively soft kiss to his abdomen. “Then I’d rather not ruin my good suit.” 

Slade nods permissively, cocking a hip to watch the proceedings as Bruce strips out of his layers, folding them meticulously and setting them aside on the dresser. That butler must’ve had the spine to teach Wayne some manners. Most rich types Slade knows live in absolute pigsties. 

He’s handsome, beneath the layers, though he keeps the pants and shirt, untucked, on. Self-conscious, maybe. Slade can work with that. He does somewhat regret the belt being folded off to the side with the jacket though. 

Then Bruce settles, beckoning Slade back into his lap with the most placid, knowing expression Slade’s ever seen on a man’s face. He smiles and saunters over, making a show of lowering himself over the man’s thighs, brushing against that hard length with his own stirring cock where it presses against his panties. 

It affects him more than he expected, a shiver chasing up his spine at even that barest sensation. 

It’s exactly enough time for Wayne to wrap his fists over Slade’s thigh straps and wrench him down onto the covers. The breath rushes out of him when he bounces on the sheets, more in pleasant surprise than any real shock. 

Bruce is leaning over him in the next moment, yanking him back down to grind his cock against Slade’s barely clothed ass. Holding his legs open by the straps for a few poignant moments more, just to instil what the man probably considers a power imbalance. Slade can play along; he gets the impression Wayne likes a challenge, and he’s always been one to deliver on that front. 

He waits for Wayne to turn him back over, so Slade can smile demurely up at the man towering over him before he strikes. 

Slade wraps his thighs - and god, these tights make it fucking hard to grip - around Wayne’s shoulders, choking off his neck with a playful snarl. Bruce’s hands jump up immediately, nails cutting through the thin material like tissue paper. The garter snaps immediately after, clasps flying somewhere across the room that neither of them bother to track as the straps hang free. 

It’s thrilling, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he watches the man writhe between his thighs, manicures turned to claws on his skin. It’s not like Slade can’t take a few scratches and bruises. Enhanced healing always was a useful boon. 

It’s when one of those hands parts to wrap up under his jaw and flatten his windpipe into the mattress that the smirk slips from Slade’s features. Not because he’s all too worried about being choked out - adds a bit of spice, if you ask him - but because he hadn’t even seen Bruce broadcast the move. Hadn’t known the playboy was capable of a fluke like that. 

When he reaches up to address the threat, that other hand drops to grip his wrist, weight shifting to push through his leg hold and twist Slade onto his front in the same motion. He ends up half-pressed into the mattress, Bruce’s hard length grinding against his thigh as he tries to right himself. 

The hand releases his wrist before Slade can switch the grip, latching onto the harness where it crisscrosses between his shoulder blades, and hauling him up the mattress until he’s fully on his stomach. His ribs protest the movement, aching beneath the strain of the leather as he’s shoved up against the edge of the bed, cock grinding on the sheets, still trapped in his panties. Slade somewhat regrets Bruce’s casual offer to undress him now. 

Bruce palms Slade’s presented ass before he rips the panties off his thighs with proven strength, ripping a groan from Slade’s chest in the process. 

This is… this is _fun._ Slade’s a little startled by his own body’s reaction to the force, but he can get with the programme quickly. He _likes_ the roughness, likes the disregard for both of their safety. 

Sure, it’s not like Slade can go all out and bludgeon a civilian to death without blowing his cover, but this is just as good. Being manhandled down onto the sheets, a dry thumb dragging over his exposed hole with unerring precision, has all the nerves in Slade’s body singing. 

When that thumb dips into his hole, Slade reaches back to latch around Bruce’s wrist, halting the motion even as he rocks back into the touch. 

“No prep,” he insists. 

He can practically feel Bruce’s handsome features contorting in concern. “You sure?” 

It’s not like the guy’s going to leave any lasting damage. Maybe Slade’s never admitted it, but he tends to swing more on the masochistic side of things. Enhanced healing will push a guy to try new and retrospectively stupid things. 

“You got a condom?” he asks, and can feel Bruce’s surprise, even as he withdraws the digit. 

“Jesus, you really do like it hard, don’t you?” Bruce mutters, but Slade hears him pawing around in his pockets in the next minute, patting himself down for his wallet. He grinds against the sheets, biting his lip to stifle the moans at the sweet friction on his unattended cock. 

There’s the sound of foil tearing, and then a snap of latex that has Slade arching back against Bruce’s thighs impatiently. It earns him a swat on the ass, and Slade laughs into the sheets. 

It filters into a high keen in the next minute, when Bruce drags his sheathed cock between Slade’s cheeks, catching the head on his rim as he goes. It makes Slade’s thighs tremble, makes him want to grab the shaft and push back onto it himself. 

Bruce doesn’t keep him waiting, easing into him at a pace that has Slade whining restlessly. Evidently tired of his fretting, the man makes it what feels to be about halfway in before he wraps hands around the front of Slade’s thighs and snaps his hips the rest of the way in. 

Slade shouts at the harsh slide, hands wrapping fitfully into the sheets as Bruce grinds against him. His cock feels broad, spearing into Slade, and without the prep, every nerve sings with the stretch. Bruce hisses something that sounds like a curse, knees knocking into the back of Slade’s as he adjusts his stance and pulls back out. 

Then Bruce gets both hands firmly wrapped around the straps in his mid-back, bunching them between his fists so he can wrench Slade down onto his cock. The force of it rocks Slade back up in rebound, punching the air from his lungs as Bruce’s length slides deep and his thighs smack against the bed. 

“Fuck,” Slades breathes, and then Bruce sets up a punishing pace. 

It’s like being fucked into by a jackhammer. There’s a precision to the brutality, every thrust aimed to slam against Slade’s prostate, to have him squirming up the bed. The force of those hips smacking into his ass might just leave bruises at this rate, those heavy knuckles digging into the sensitive flesh of Slade’s back every time he pulls him back down by the straps. 

There’s not a lot Slade can do other than angle his hips up and take it. He lets his jaw go slack, lets the moans building in his throat break free, pitching up to a needy timbre as Bruce pounds into him. When one of those hands parts to snake around Slade’s hip and take his leaking length in hand, he wails. That grip is calloused and _tight_ and rough, jacking him with barely a care for Slade’s own pleasure, chasing the sweet heat of his clenching hole with every tug. 

It’s a festival of rutting; Slade’s thighs are beginning to chafe against the sheets by the time he climaxes, dragging Bruce over with him when he does. The man grinds hard against Slade’s prostate when he comes, grunting before he stills inside him. 

Slade can feel the sweat pooling in his spine, drying slowly with the warmth of the room. The air is thick where it heaves from their lungs, Slade drooping listlessly over the sheets. 

Bruce plants a palm in the small of his back, just beneath a silver ring binding several points of Slade’s harness together, but makes no move to withdraw from him. It’s odd, to feel the pulse of that softening cock buried deep inside him, the searing heat familiar - without the sensation of wetness. It’s only belatedly that Slade remembers the condom, and feels a twinge of regret. 

“You look good like this,” Bruce says after a few breathless moments. 

Slade’s lips quirk, his veins sated with the satisfaction of a good hard fuck. He’s not sure his legs can support him just yet, let alone enough to step back into those heels. His muscles are perfectly content to let him lie where he is, with Bruce’s hips still pressed to his bruised ass and the man’s cock still inside him. 

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” Slade hums half-heartedly. 

Bruce scoffs, and laughs softly to himself. “I have to be honest - I didn’t see me being your type.” 

Slade turns his head enough to wink over his shoulder at the still-clothed man. “Everyone’s my type for the right price.” 

Bruce rocks gently, slowly, into him, the friction just beginning to burn now that the lube is beginning to dry. Slade moans at the buzz of tired nerves, and then again, softer and more reticent, when the man pulls out. 

“I’ll believe that. What’s the going rate for hook ups these days?” 

Slade shifts, arching his back to gauge the full extent of the bruising on his ass. It throbs dully when he does, so he crosses his arms under his chin and bathes in the sensation for a few moment longer as Bruce tidies up. 

“For you?” Slade purrs, and bats his lashes. He feels like his makeup might have run. “Free of charge.” 

Bruce smiles to himself, something more fond than what Slade would call typical playboy fare. He pulls up his zipper, crossing to the dresser to retrieve his jacket. Slade watches him with languid rapture as he redresses, content to enjoy his sprawl. 

“I’ve got a friend looking to get engaged soon,” Bruce muses aloud, fixing his cufflinks. In minutes, he’s the perfect picture of presentable. “Would your services be available for another bachelor’s party?” 

Slade stills, blinking. The answer is no, this was a one-time cover and he’ll be burning this persona as soon as he steps out the back door. Which he plans to do soon, inconspicuously, before anyone else notices him leaving. He was only here for the contract - a contract he’ll probably pass up, now that he knows what he does of Queen’s security. 

The smaller, more reckless part of him questions what another night with Bruce Wayne could look like. Besides, there’s no harm in leaving the door open, right? If mercenary work has taught Slade anything, it’s that networking gets you places. 

Imagining Bruce's face when Deathstroke the Terminator kicks in his office door to call in a favour has Slade's lips curling. The man's in for one hell of a shock. 

“I’ll think about it.” 

Bruce nods at that, accepting the sentiment without a fuss. He smooths down the front of his shirt, not quite managing to disguise the wrinkles worked into it, before splashing some of the complimentary cologne on the dresser over his wrists and neck. “Until we meet again, then?” 

Slade’s lips crook at that. “Until then.” 

The door closes behind him with only the barest click, leaving Slade alone in the empty room, wrapped in the tatters of what was once a tasteful outfit. It’s not until he shifts upright with a regretful groan that he feels the remains of what were once his panties slip off his hips, and freezes. 

So much for escaping out the back door unnoticed. 

**Author's Note:**

> [ ](https://linktr.ee/meaninglessblah)


End file.
